


touch

by snowmissus (soul_of_blaze)



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, I just wanted to try something new here so that's what this is, M/M, Pining, Thorin's POV, Vignette, of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:14:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23740633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soul_of_blaze/pseuds/snowmissus
Summary: Thereafter, it is difficult to not notice the way that he carries himself around Bilbo. It is an uncertain thing, whether Thorin acts subconsciously, or if he is drawn to Bilbo the way that a dragon is drawn to gold.The thoughts trouble him.--A series of vignettes concerning Thorin and touch and Bilbo.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 24
Kudos: 188





	touch

The first time it happens, Thorin doesn’t think he  _ lets _ it happen. It simply happens because he has no idea what to do. Perhaps he might have done something...  _ perhaps _ . By the time Bilbo is pressing the handkerchief to one of the cuts on his face, it’s too late to tell him to stop. 

That is what Thorin tells himself. 

Bilbo had pulled him away from the rest of the dwarves, once they’d made it off the carrock. For now, they’re out of danger and they have the time to regroup. Time to assess the damages sustained from the fight with the goblins and the fight against Azog. Thorin can feel his fist curling tight in anger. 

A gentle touch to his hand stops the path of thought he is spiraling down. 

When he looks back up, Bilbo’s eyes are trained on the cut across the bridge of his nose. 

“Stop that,” Bilbo says. He looks tired. Thorin knows they’re all tired. They haven’t had much sleep in the last few days. Yet Bilbo looks like he might be dead on his feet shortly. 

Thorin winces away at the brush of the handkerchief against another cut. But he remains quiet as Bilbo dabs at them. They’re not even the worst of what Thorin has sustained from the previous night. His ribs are likely worse for wear than anything else but Oin is tending to Dwalin and Dori at the moment. He’d rather the company be taken care of before he is. 

His eyes draw back to Bilbo. 

For the first time, Thorin picks out more details than he had before. There’s a scrape against his left cheek. It’s superficial at most, barely noticeable, but they’re a breadth away from each other as Bilbo attempts to clean his face. His knuckles are bloodied and though Thorin cannot see his palms, he has a feeling they’re likely in a similar state. 

He lets his eyes slip shut after a moment. Something between them has changed. A shift that he did not anticipate. 

\--

Thereafter, it is difficult to not notice the way that he carries himself around Bilbo. It is an uncertain thing, whether Thorin acts subconsciously, or if he is drawn to Bilbo the way that a dragon is drawn to gold. 

The thoughts trouble him. 

What troubles him more is that the one moment he lets Bilbo out of his sight, and damn the forest for drawing him in too deep, does not register. He is lost, even for the few moments, and when he comes back to himself, disoriented, he is relieved that his company is at least whole. 

_ Where’s Bilbo? _

The fact that he does not know worries Thorin. His eyes scan his company again, but there is no hobbit among them. Before he can call out, one of the elves shoves him forward to fall in line behind his company. 

Thorin grits his teeth, curling his fist as they are marched into the Woodland realm. 

There is no soft hand to soothe his, and Thorin leaves behind crescent-moon marks on the inside of his palm. 

When he is brought before the Elvenking, before Thranduil (thrice damn  _ him) _ , Thorin curses Mahal. On a good day, Thorin has a short temper, settled deeply in his blood, drawn out through the line of Durin. With an elf like Thranduil, an elf that Thorin looks at and thinks betrayal, his ire rises before he can stop it, before he can reason with himself that this might be their only chance of leaving the realm freely. 

Perhaps, if Bilbo had been there… 

The hobbit seemed to have a sort of diplomacy about him that Thorin lacked, the remarkable ability to smooth over affairs like this. 

He ignores Balin’s words when he is brought back to the cells. Thorin’s fingers curl around one of the bars, letting him peer out and up into the rest of the Woodland realm. A flash of Bilbo in his mind calms the remnants of his ire. 

“Not our only hope,” he says softly. 

It is not as if he expects Bilbo to appear then and there, but Thorin lingers there for a few minutes. 

Thorin Oakenshield has never put much faith in other people. Trusting other people had left him battered and abandoned far too many times to count. Somehow, he  _ knows _ that Bilbo will find them. It is luck that the hobbit was not detained with them, wherever he might be. They have a fighting chance if Bilbo is on the other side of the bars. 

If he is able to remain that way. 

Eventually, Thorin settles in the corner of the cell, crossing his arms over his chest as they wait. Thorin knows the others are not as convinced as he is, that Bilbo will spirit them away from the dungeons, and that they do nothing but wait for a chance of their own to break out, but Thorin holds the hope close to his heart. 

Bilbo will come. 

He is not wrong. 

When Bilbo appears, dangling the keys to the cells, it is like a fire lights in Thorin’s chest. Before Bilbo can move much, Thorin presses up against the bars of his cell, wrapping his fingers around them as he watches Bilbo. 

“I knew you would come,” Thorin says, his voice hushed, so that it only reaches between the two of them. 

He sees the subtle coloring of Bilbo’s cheeks when Thorin’s hand slips through the bars to grasp Bilbo’s, as he reaches to open the cell. 

“We have to be quick,” Bilbo says, but his voice remains low as Thorin’s, the exchange for them alone. He does not let go of Thorin’s hand. 

\--

The terror in his chest when he pulls Bilbo from the river after he’s stumbled out of a barrel is not comparable to anything he has felt before. Indescribable. He keeps it close to his chest. Because it shouldn’t be worse than the dread he felt when Smaug came or when he saw Azog after he thought him long dead. 

More than himself, he doesn’t want Bilbo to die on this quest. 

It’s not his quest to die for. He should go home after all of this is over. Thorin doesn’t know why that thought makes his chest seize. Bilbo returning to the land of the Shire is the logical conclusion. 

Bilbo clings to him as they catch their breath on the back of the river. He’s nearly shivering and Thorin isn’t quite sure if it’s from fear or the chill settling in. 

He tells himself it’s only a natural reaction to press Bilbo firmly against his side when Bard levels them with an arrow. He has to protect the members of his company, after all, and Bilbo is  _ right there _ . It is nothing more than that, truly, and he would have done the same if any of his company were next to him. He would have. 

He would have. 

Lake-town is not pleasant. 

It smells of fish and the lakewater, and nothing like what he imagined the penultimate of their quest should be like. They should be celebrating their near victory, not huddling around the small table of a bargeman who watches them as distrustfully as any Man ever has. 

Bilbo shivers. The movement catches Thorin’s attention and he moves quickly, grabbing one of the bargeman’s oversized clothes as he nearly corners Bilbo. It is much too large for Bilbo, even more than for the rest of the company, but it at least will be warmer and drier than his coat. 

His hand brushes against Bilbo’s arm. Bilbo looks at him. 

“Thank you,” Bilbo says, and then his nose twitches. Thorin thinks it’s endearing. 

Bilbo sneezes, violently, and then groans. 

“Are you well?” Thorin asks. 

He knows of sickness and colds. They do not affect dwarves, but Thorin has seen his fair share of the Menfolk affected by a variety of maladies. Hobbits, apparently, are not different. 

“Yes, yes,” Bilbo mutters. He seems agitated. “I’ll be fine.”

\--

It is a selfish gesture, to give the cape to Bilbo. 

Were this a different time, a different place, it would have been far too obvious what he had done. It had dawned on Thorin that he was truly and utterly lost, that there was no coming back. 

He was wrecked, in the face of Bilbo Baggins. 

The closer the mountain grows as they cross the Long Lake, the more Thorin’s heart tightens in his chest. Each step, each stroke through the water, Thorin knows that they are so, so  _ damn  _ close. Erebor is before them, and she is almost within reach. 

It is not something that Thorin ever thought he would have at his fingertips. 

The ruins of Dale are not as promising. Decades of time have passed since Thorin last saw them, and as he stalks across the landscape towards them, he is almost afraid. 

Of  _ what _ ?

“Fear not, master Baggins,” Thorin murmurs, his voice soft, but carried on the wind as he brushes their arms together. “We are nearly there. We have the daylight.”

Bilbo snorts softly, and Thorin watches him scan the ruins of Dale, before his eyes grow wide as he takes in the front gates of Erebor. “Gandalf said--”

“We have no time to wait on the wizard,” Thorin says, his voice souring before his mouth relaxes and he guides Bilbo with a gentle hand. “If we do not act now, this entire quest will have been for naught.”

He can see the doubt on Bilbo’s face, the uncertainty of the task at hand, but what Thorin says is the truth. Gandalf is not there and they cannot wait on the precipice for him. They have only the remaining daylight hours to locate the door and find their way into the mountain. Otherwise… 

It does not bear thinking. 

Bilbo moves with him after a moment of hesitation, giving a firm nod in agreement. 

Their search for the door is not in vain, if only because Bilbo is there and he is the first to spot the nearly hidden staircase that leads up to the mountain, and if they are right, to the hidden door. Erebor is so close Thorin can taste the familiarity at the back of his throat. 

“You have keen eyes,” Thorin murmurs, his hand brushing against Bilbo’s back as they look up at the staircase. 

Bilbo chuckles next to him. “It’s a bit obvious, if you ask me.”

“No matter,” Thorin says, urging the company up the stairs. 

Again, it is only thanks to Bilbo that their quest is for naught. Thorin has only just shoved the map into Bilbo’s hands, slumping his way, defeated, back down the stairs, when he hears the cry from the hobbit. Thorin pivots on the stairs, pausing, listening as Bilbo babbles about the door and the last moon and… It dawns on Thorin what the last light of Durin’s day actually means. 

Some desperate part of Thorin wishes to embrace Bilbo, like head had on the carrock, but they have no time to waste. Once he has retrieved the key, he presses it into the ancient door. The fear lingering in his mind, that it would not open, that still everything would have been for nothing, dissipates, when the door gives under the press of his hands. 

Erebor is overwhelming. 

The familiarity of it brings tears unbidden to his eyes and he touches a reverent hand to the wall, breathing in sharply. 

For the moment, Thorin forgets everything but the feel of his home under his hands and feet, the familiarity of the halls and the feeling of being whole again, here, in his _ home. _

\-- 

There is a sharpness in his chest, when Thorin rushes into the mountain. This time, he does not have the time or the mind to stop and breathe Erebor in, or to think about anything except for the fact that he let Bilbo go face to face with a damn dragon. 

But then, suddenly, Bilbo is in front of him and the hobbit stumbles over the gold underfoot, gasping heavily as he tries to catch his breath. 

“Thorin, he’s--”

_ He has it _ , something deep inside Thorin whispers. 

The voice sends a chill down Thorin’s spine as he stares wildly at Bilbo. He is torn, between shoving Bilbo behind him for safety, or to.. To.. 

Deathless barely touching Bilbo’s throat is not an action Thorin is fully coherent of. He registers the surprise in Bilbo’s eyes, and he expects it to be followed by fear, but Bilbo’s mouth only puckers, turning down. 

“Thorin?”

And then, the dragon, and then they’re fleeing, Thorin grabbing Bilbo’s hand to pull him close, out of the way of dragon fire. 

Erebor is vast and dark, nothing like his childhood home, but Thorin has not forgotten her halls so easily. He navigates, Bilbo’s hand in his, until they find momentary safety. They have to plan quickly, figure something out before Smaug finds them again. 

“We should split up,” Bilbo hisses, glancing over the rest of the company and then back towards Thorin. “See if we can find a way back out.” 

“Aye,” Thorin murmurs, his eyes moving over Bilbo’s face and then over the company as well. “If we split up, we will at least confuse him.” 

Bilbo’s hand remains in his. 

\-- 

Deep down inside of him, there is a hunger, something that Thorin cannot comprehend. His hands sift through the gold, eyes sharp as he looks for the shine of the Arkenstone. It has to be here, it has to. 

_ Thorin _ . 

He drops another opal, growling in frustration. 

**Thorin** . 

The voice again, attempting to draw him. To tell him that Bilbo has the Arkenstone, or one of the company does, but he’s been fighting that. He trusts them. His company. They would not betray them. It is not their birthright. It is his, and his alone, and they’d be fools to--

“Thorin!”

A diamond slips from between his fingers and Thorin looks up, taking in Bilbo’s visage. Among the gold, Bilbo looks wondrous. The glow from a nearby torch reflects in his curls, turning them almost golden, so that he might be a part of the treasury. 

“Why don’t we, ah, take a break?” Bilbo says, taking a step closer, and Thorin watches the trickle of gold when the hobbit’s feet disturb a pile of it. Bilbo clears his throat and Thorin looks back at him. “You haven’t eaten anything, in a while.”

“I will eat when the Arkenstone is returned,” Thorin says, but he moves closer to Bilbo, reaching a heavily-decorated hand out to cradle Bilbo’s cheek. “You do not worry about that,  _ kidhuzurâl _ . ”

“I am not worried about the Arkenstone,” Bilbo says, pushing Thorin’s hand away from his cheek gently. Thorin curls his fingers into his palm, back against his side. “I am worried about you. Listen… if you do not eat, you will not retain your strength to search through the treasury, yes? The rest of the company has eaten,” he says, and then quickly adds, as if he knows the thoughts growing in Thorin’s mind, “and they’re looking for the Arkenstone as we speak. You can take a break.” 

It is difficult for Thorin to resist, when Bilbo is looking at him the way he is, and the fire decorates him in golden light. 

\-- 

His ire grows. 

The Arkenstone has yet to be found, even after they have surely scoured the whole of the treasury. But he knows it must be here somewhere. He can feel it, somewhere, near, thrumming in his heart. His birthright. 

As Thorin rounds the corner, he finds Bilbo alone, gazing down at something in his hand. 

_ He has it! _ The vicious voice in his mind lets out a peal of chilling laughter.  _ Thief. Your thief, you fool.  _

“What is that?” Thorin hisses. Bilbo startles and looks up, his hand curling possessively around what he has in his hand. He doesn’t want Thorin to see it. 

_ You’ve been betrayed _ . 

“Show me,” Thorin demands, his fist curling tighter as Bilbo stares at him in surprise. 

“Ah, it’s…” Bilbo sounds embarrassed, and when his hand opens, there is no shine, no glow, no Arkenstone. Thorin is met with nothing but an acorn, sitting neatly in the hobbit’s palm. “I picked up in Beorn’s garden.”

“You… you’ve carried it all this way?” Thorin cannot fathom why Bilbo would carry around an acorn, and gaze at it like it was the answer to everything. Like it was as precious as the Arkenstone. 

“I.. I’m going to plant it. In my garden. In.. in Bag End,” Bilbo clears his throat, glancing down at the acorn and then back up at Thorin, a strange little smile on his lips. 

“It is a poor prize to take back to the Shire,” Thorin says, the heavy sadness settling in his stomach. He knows that Bilbo will return to his home at the end of all this. Of course he will. That was always how it would be. 

“Thorin,” Bilbo starts, and then his words taper off, as Thorin reaches to curl Bilbo’s fingers back over the acorn, his own fingers curling around Bilbo’s in turn. Held between them.

“I hope that you will remember us, when you do.” 

Something crushing appears in Bilbo’s expression, and his smile turns heartbreakingly sad, but Thorin has no words to say this time. 

“I will.” 

\--

Upon the rampart, Bilbo stands before him, defiance in his stance and face. 

A cold feeling pools in the pit of Thorin, his eyes tracing over Bilbo again and again, and the dwarves standing behind him. No one is saying anything. 

_ He had it! _ The voice rises again, louder this time.  _ He played you for a fool! _

“You?” Thorin gasps, finally, the words springing from his lips as he stares at Bilbo. 

“I was going to tell you,” Bilbo says. 

“You would steal from me?”

“No, no,” Bilbo holds up his hands, but Thorin can only picture them scooping the Arkenstone up, tucking it away, and those terrible hands holding his own. “I… I, ah, took it as my claim.”

“Your claim?” Thorin’s voice rises and he moves, one hand gripping the rampart as he stares wildly at Bilbo. “You have no claim over me, thief!”

“Thorin--”

Before anyone can stop him, before Thorin can reign the overwhelming betrayal in, his hands are on Bilbo and rounding him, shoving him hard into the stone of the rampart. He hears the gasp of Bilbo’s breath as it leaves him briefly. 

Under his hands, he can feel the rabbiting of Bilbo’s heart, its thump in his chest as Bilbo stares up at him. 

Fear. 

He barely registers Gandalf’s words. There is a void opening up inside of him, registering instead the fear growing in Bilbo’s eyes as he struggles between Thorin and the rampart wall. 

Thorin lets go, his hands shaking as Bilbo scrambles away from him, Fili and Bofur at his back and blocking Thorin from chasing after him. 

His hands tremble. 

\-- 

Pain erupts in Thorin’s chest, and he heaves a heavy breath as he looks over the battle below. 

Azog is dead. 

Azog is dead, but there is no end to the battle ongoing. He has seen far too many dwarves die today, and too many men, and… even elves. This was not what he wanted. 

His _ boys. _

The thought of them wrecks Thorin and the pain in his chest reaches its peak, forcing Thorin to his knees. He chokes on the pain, grimacing as he tries to support himself and get back up. If he can get back up, he can find them, and he can get them to safety, to Oin, or someone, even an elf, if that meant that they would live. 

He will die here. Alone. 

Thorin lets his eyes fall shut. 

“Thorin!”

His eyes shoot open, just as Bilbo comes into view. He stumbles down to Thorin’s side, a whimper leaving his mouth as he sees the wound that has torn Thorin open. 

“Oh,” Bilbo mumbles, his hands reaching out.

Thorin wants to push them away. He does not deserve Bilbo’s touch. Not now. But he has no strength and Bilbo’s hands press tightly against the wound, before he presses one against his mouth, perhaps trying to muffle the whimper that leaves his mouth. 

“Bilbo--”

“Shh,” Bilbo whispers, and when his hand comes down, it finds one of Thorin’s instead. Their fingers curl together. “Don’t… don’t speak.”

“I must apologize,” Thorin says, and Bilbo shakes his head. “I was so _ blind _ …”

“Shut up, you colossal idiot!” Bilbo whips his head to stare at Thorin’s face, his mouth pulled down in a scowl. “Or I will send you to your forefather’s halls myself.”

“Please, Bilbo…”

“No,” Bilbo snaps, and Thorin feels his hand press tighter against his wound, his other hand squeezing Thorin’s in turn. “You will not utter any sort of goodbye, Thorin Oakenshield. I will see you off this battlefield myself, if I must.”

Thorin clings to Bilbo, too lost for words, his grip weak but Bilbo’s strong, steadying… anchoring him. 

\-- 

His consciousness rouses him, but not quite enough for him to tell if he is truly part of the world, or merely floating through it. 

There is only what he can feel or hear, nothing else. 

Thorin feels the brush of careful hands against his skin, first accompanied by the feeling of linen bandages, tightening around his chest, securing him. Then, he feels a warmth against his face, damp, pressing into his skin delicately, as if afraid that it might harm him if pressed an inch too hard. 

He feels a brush against his hand, against the back of his hand and then the weight of another hand against his, holding tight, as if trying to pull him from the fog that he occupies. 

Thorin hears the whisper of words, but he cannot make them out. They are far away, as if he were under water, or simply too far away for the words to reach his ears properly. There is the whisper of his name, closer to his ears, so that it is distinct enough that he knows it is his name. 

But nothing more than that. 

He wanes in and out of that fogged consciousness, aware that there is something going around him, that there is someone there with him, but he cannot seem to rouse from the fog, no matter how much he desires to. 

For him, there is no measure he can make of the time that passes. He does not know. 

Thorin only knows that one day, he rouses and when he opens his eyes, there is no fog. He looks up at the deep green of Erebor and something settles in his chest. Thorin Oakenshield is home. 

Or, perhaps… Perhaps he is in Mahal’s halls, at last. 

It would only be fitting that it might remind him of Erebor. 

There is a press against his chest, a warmth, and a tickle against his nose. Thorin looks down and his breath catches at the sight. 

Bilbo curls against his chest, his head tucked down, but his curls, awry as they are, brush against Thorin’s nose. He has one hand lain over the place where Thorin’s heart thrums, steady and sure, which Bilbo must be able to feel. 

His other hand is caught up in Thorin’s, their fingers laced together, and he can feel that the hobbit has a hold on him, through his fingers. 

“ _ Kurdel _ ,” Thorin whispers, his voice reverent, far more than when he had regarded Erebor again for the first time. It is something he says only because he fears that he never will again, and Bilbo must be sleeping, so he will not hear the word leave Thorin’s mouth. 

“Would you stop that?” Bilbo mumbles, and he cracks an eye open, staring at Thorin before he sits up quickly, knocking his head against Thorin’s chin in the process. Bilbo curses, rubbing his head as he continues to stare at Thorin in surprise. “You… you’re awake.”

“Aye,” Thorin’s voice cracks when he raises it above a whisper. “What am I supposed to be stopping, exactly, master Baggins? Shall I slip back into the ether? I much prefer being awake, but if that is what you wi--”

Bilbo slams their mouths together, in a kiss so intense, that Thorin forgets about everything but the hobbit on top of him, and the feel of his mouth moving against Thorin’s own. It is a messy, heated thing, that is truly more their teeth knocking together than anything else, as a result of Bilbo’s enthusiasm. He is certain that Bilbo has bruised his mouth within a few seconds, but Thorin cannot help himself from slipping his free arm around Bilbo and holding him there until the hobbit finally pulls away with a soft gasp. 

“You!” Bilbo says, and Thorin feels Bilbo’s hand trembling in his. Thorin tightens his fingers around Bilbo’s, much as he can. He feels weak. “You were saying all these sorts of things in your… sleep, I suppose. All in your own tongue! I had no idea what you were saying, you know, and then I had to ask someone else, and when they told me…!”

Thorin watches Bilbo’s face and then he shifts, untangling their fingers. Bilbo lets out a small noise but Thorin is quick to cup Bilbo’s cheek in turn, brushing his thumb against the curve of it. Bilbo turns his head slightly, pressing into the rough pads of his fingers. 

“How long have you been in love with me?” Bilbo asks, his voice muffled slightly as he speaks into Thorin’s palm. 

“It’s been a long time,” Thorin says, pressing his thumb gently against Bilbo’s bottom lip. “Since you saved me from Azog.”

“Oh,” Bilbo says, and he meets Thorin’s eyes. His hand slips up, covering Thorin’s on his cheek, and there is a softness in his eyes that Thorin did not think he would see again. 

**Author's Note:**

> This was a sort of experiment for me. 
> 
> Quarantine is really bringing the longing back out in me, huh? I started writing this a loooong time ago, I don't remember when, but I decided to sit down and finish it. It ended up a tad bit longer than I planned for it but hey, who cares. This was going to be an ambiguous ending originally but that ended up feeling wrong so I added the last part so we can all be happy! 
> 
> I haven't written anything where I skip scene to scene like this but I wanted to try it for this. And writing from Thorin's point of view, instead of Bilbo's because I find Bilbo easier to write most of the time. 
> 
> Khuzdul:   
> kidhuzurâl - Golden one  
> kurdel - heart of all hearts


End file.
